Wild Card: A College Sports Romance (Rake Forge University Series Book 1)

by Ashley Munoz

  Now, it was just a matter of time.

  Chapter Two

  “This is total garbage.” The loud thwack echoed through the room.

  My editor had just slammed someone’s assignment down and was about to cause a scene. Gaping mouths, wide eyes, and a few gasps met my gaze as I searched for the victim. I was a little confused as to why every eyeline I seemed to meet was already aimed toward me. My brain was moving too slow, like walking in mud. I registered that Trevor was standing over me, but I didn’t register that his presence had anything to do with me.

  “I expected more from you, Shaw.” The cold words dripped down my spine like tiny beads of acid, burning and destroying one inch at a time.

  I finally understood the expressions on my fellow classmates’ faces.

  Trevor was talking to me.

  Oh my god.

  “What…?” I blinked.

  “Garbage. Complete bullshit,” Trevor snapped, adding in a little more flavor for everyone in the room. I winced and felt my throat close. I didn’t even know how to respond, because how could he be talking to me?

  “Surely it’s no—”

  Trevor interrupted me with a heavy exhale. “When I say something is garbage, I’m not trying to spare your feelings. Trust me.”

  I watched with wide eyes as he pushed his blue light glasses up with his pointer finger.

  I was dreaming.

  I had to be dreaming. I focused on the yellow smear on his shirt. That’s what dancers do, right, when they’re spinning? Pick something to focus on so each spin around the room doesn’t make them dizzy. I was feeling really dizzy at the moment, so I focused on the yellow stain with all my strength.

  Trevor Gage was our senior editor, but the guy hated my guts. I didn’t really know why, but he’d made all four years in this class completely miserable for me. I’d pushed and pushed and pushed through it, but now that we were so close to graduation, I was losing my patience.

  “I don’t understand…” I slowly stood, wiping my hands on my distressed jeans. There was a worn hole near my inner thigh, where my legs rubbed together. I liked to pretend it didn’t exist, because I considered them my lucky pair. Suddenly I was feeling a little betrayed. I tugged my beloved red hoodie around my body, pulling from its comfort while hoping this wasn’t what it sounded like. Maybe he was confused and had mixed up my article with someone else’s.

  The man who was breathing fire down my neck narrowed his watery brown eyes and scoffed. “This”—he swung a stapled stack of pages around, presumably my article—“is. Total. Garbage.” He slowed his words, getting closer to my personal bubble.

  Most people knew to give me space, because I didn’t do well with being touched without giving distinct permission. I had weird reactions to people in my space. My therapist said it had to do with the accident I’d been in with my mother when I was ten. She hadn’t made it out, and I was broken for a while from it. I didn’t think that had anything to do with hating people in my space, but she was the professional, not me.

  “But the deadline for the article…” I pressed on, my tongue feeling too thick for my mouth. I needed him to realize that, garbage or not, my article would make it into the showcase and fill the slot allocated in the school paper.

  “The deadline will be met.” Trevor stepped closer. I could smell his lunch, and my breathing grew shallow. Heat from his body slammed into me, and while any normal person wouldn’t consider it a slam or even pick up on the heat, I did. I felt it, like a furnace burning me up, tiny bugs filled with fire crawling along my skin, daring me to run.

  “Please,” I whispered, needing him to back up and reconsider featuring my article.

  “You’re lucky I’m not kicking you off the paper, Shaw. That shit was something I’d find in a middle school paper.” He leaned even closer.

  I counted to ten in my head. Closed my eyes. Breathed through my nose. Still he lingered, breathing in my space, heating up the inadequate amount of distance between us.

  “Please back up,” I whispered.

  I was twenty-one years old. I had dealt with this little space issue for most my life, but for whatever reason it still flared to life with big fat colors and warning signs for everyone to see.

  “Trevor, I think Mal needs some space,” Lydia suggested from somewhere to my right. I kept my eyes closed, waiting for this prick to take a step back. The seconds stretched, feeling like hours.

  “Of course,” he scoffed. “Her little issue. What a fucking nut case.”

  My eyes watered as his words hit. He always said something like that when I mentioned my need for space. There were four zones of varying distances for personal space when being social. Right then, he should have been at least four feet away from me. He was stepping over that, into the intimate zone, and I was deeply bothered by it.

  “Sorry, I’ll step back.” He raised his hands then let out another laugh.

  I lowered my eyes to the floor even as a rush of air filled my lungs from the relief of him moving. I grabbed the file he’d slammed on my desk and slowly followed him to his office. I would sit in front of his desk, providing plenty of space between us while he explained what I’d done wrong. My heart sank as I walked past my classmates. I looked around and found Lydia, Jules, and Ronda all staring at me with grief-laden features. Lydia’s eyes even watered.

  That hurt. A shard of pain sliced my chest as I realized how stupid we’d been to celebrate the night before.

  Bad luck.

  Trevor grabbed for a paper covered in bland yellow sticky notes. I quickly noted that if I were editor, I would use a color coordinated sticky-note system, and not a single time would any of them be bland yellow.

  “What about the deadline? You said we were short-staffed…you even had Jamie write for sports this week even though she doesn’t usually cover it.” I tentatively sat, hoping I could talk my way out of being blacklisted. I really needed to be in this week’s paper. I had to. I had worked half the year for that article, and if I didn’t get into this week’s spot, I wouldn’t even have enough time to come up with another story.

  “I had a feeling you’d let me down, so I had something ready to go,” the asshole muttered, not even meeting my eyeline.

  Motherfucking asshole.

  I clenched my fists at my sides, repeating the same mantra in my head that Dad always told me to say when I wanted to hit someone. Not worth the jail time. Picture a beach, maybe a whale birth or some other magical shit to get your mind off it.

  “If my article doesn’t make it into this edition, there’s a chance it won’t be seen in time for the showcase…” I hated that I even said it. I didn’t want to show any weakness, but I was desperate.

  “Not my problem, Shaw. Find me something that is worthy of true journalism, something so good not even I could replicate it. Get me dirt. Get me something that will have people talking for days after it’s printed.” Trevor leaned forward, bracing his thin hands under his narrow chin. One good pop in the nose and it would make me feel loads better.

  Not. Worth. The. Jail. Time.

  I didn’t even respond because it would be a dishonor to the article I’d already written. It was pure perfection, and everyone knew it. There was no way it shouldn’t be included. I could have gone over his head, but by the time we all had our little sit-down and hashed out our issues with our advisors, the paper will have been printed and digitally uploaded, and my name wouldn’t be there. So, the point would be moot.

  No, I had to figure this out. If not for my internship, then for my mom.

  The greying sky only darkened as rain pelted my windshield. It boded well for my old Honda, which was in desperate need of a wash. I looked longingly at the white Beemer sitting in the driveway and clenched my back molars together. Taylor was home, which meant she’d probably be entertaining someone…likely some jock who liked eating all my lime-flavored chips and drinking all my flavored water. I wasn’t in the mood for someone to be in my space tonight, so ho
pefully Taylor would be in a good mood and understand my need for privacy.

  Fumbling with my car door, I was careful pulling out my laptop bag since the shoulder strap was barely hanging on with just three safety pins. The rain intensified as I made my way toward the door, where I promptly pulled out my keys and made a great show of trying to unlock it. I always tried to make as much noise as I could so Taylor had enough time to move any hookup activity to her bedroom, where it should always be…but sometimes I didn’t get so lucky.

  I pushed the door open, and the soft lighting from the living room wrapped around me like a warm hug. The gas fireplace was on, licking at the glass in jumpy flames. It looked as though someone had cleaned, and…I inhaled the savory scent of bread. Had someone cooked?

  “Tay?” I yelled, kicking off my shoes and setting my things on the little entryway bench.

  “Mal, you’re home,” my stepsister yelled from the kitchen.

  “Yeah…short day.” I padded in my white ankle socks toward the amazing smell.

  “Good, I wanted to tell you something!”

  I rounded the kitchen doorway, finding my stepsister with an apron tied around her waist and a spoon in her hand.

  Her blonde hair was tied back at the nape of her neck, her bangs coiffed perfectly against her forehead. Her eyebrows were threaded or shaded, maybe microbladed. Whatever they were, they were flawless. Same with her lashes. She looked like a filter you’d use to make yourself look prettier—just like her mom, the woman who had married my dad six years earlier, throwing the two of us together.

  “Guess what I got in class today?” She propped her elbow up on the counter and perched her chin on her palm, waiting for me to respond.

  A marriage proposal? Probably not humiliated in front of all your classmates.

  I blinked. “What?”

  I needed food for this conversation, and a good long talk with my therapist because I had a feeling my stepsister had really good news. I wanted to be happy for her, but sometimes it was hard.

  She was self-centered and condescending, but mostly she was just not self-aware at all. Never conscious that her comments were rude, or that having sex in our shared space would be considered thoughtless, or that using my dad’s credit card for everything she wanted was tasteless. Still, I wanted a sister. I’d never had one, so regardless of Taylor’s shortcomings, I did try to be nice to her and I did want a decent relationship with her…it was just hard to be happy for her.

  I hedged closer to the stove to see what she was making and smiled.

  “Are you trying that soup recipe?”

  I loved when she tried things outside of her comfort zone—anything to humanize her. It wasn’t often that I saw this side of her, but when I did, I got really proud.

  She blushed, untying the apron. “It’s probably horrible. It wanted me to use the grease from the bacon in the soup—that can’t be right, can it?” Her nose scrunched up in disgust as we stared down at the potato soup.

  “I think it adds flavor.” I mimicked her face so she didn’t feel stupid for asking her question. Sometimes if my face gave away that I thought she was asking something everyone should know, she wouldn’t try whatever she was doing anymore.

  “Well, whatever. It’s dinner…hopefully we don’t both die.” She tossed her apron on the counter and let out a heavy sigh.

  “You were going to tell me something?” I grabbed for my can of lime-flavored soda water, grateful there were still a few left. After the day I’d had, it was the little things I was living for.

  “Oh yeah! Oh my gosh, Mal—this is crazy.” Taylor reached into her back pocket and pulled out a simple playing card from a regular deck.

  “Are you playing poker or something?” I moved around her to grab a spoon.

  She turned with me. “No, silly…this is from the team.”

  She said team like it was holy or revered, holding the card between her fingers like it was made of gold.

  “Okay…” I didn’t exactly know how to respond even though my mind was racing at the odds of the team gathering at the bar and the cryptic term ‘card’ being used.

  “You’re a senior—you must know about the Devils and their card games…” Her blue eyes narrowed on me as her head tipped to the side.

  This was when things with Taylor got difficult. She should have already known the answer to this question. No, I didn’t know about the Devils, nor had I ever attended a single game, even for the obligatory sports story. That was always given to someone else. I never volunteered because I hated sports. Sure I’d heard rumors about the team here and there from Hillary, but she’d never mentioned anything about a card game before.

  “You know I don’t do sports, Tay.” I took my spoon to the pot of soup and dipped it in.

  “Oh…I forgot.”

  I kept my back to her so I didn’t have to see that look on her face, the one where she realized we were too different to hang out. Taylor was popular, pretty, and had exclusively hooked up with guys from the sports teams at Rake Forge University.

  “Well, the baseball team gives out these cards to girls they want to hook up with. There’s a base number on the back, and that’s how far you’ll go with your mystery player.” She waggled her eyebrows at me. “Sounds fun, huh?”

  I leaned forward, snatching the card away from her. This did not sound fun; it sounded dangerous, and my mind kept reaching for the connection to what I’d overheard the night prior. Bases have been assigned…

  “Yours says home run…”

  She brought her hands together and began jumping up and down. “I know! Someone wants to bang me, which means I’m going to wear his letterman jacket to the game next week.”

  My eyebrows dipped in confusion. “How do you know when it will happen?”

  “Everyone knows that after you get a card, the following Friday night they will host a big party—you take the card to the basement, and there you’ll be guided to the appropriate room. The guy who gave you the card will come find you, and once you do the deed, he’ll leave his jacket behind.”

  Gross. This whole thing was just too much.

  “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? You could get raped…no one would know who the guy was…this is such a bad idea.” I rubbed the stress out of my temple.

  “Every girl who gets a card willingly walks down there. Everyone knows exactly what’s being asked of them…” She let out an irritated sigh. “You wouldn’t get it. Girls who actually enjoy the attention of the male population love this. It’s like a total honor.” Her shoulders straightened, and our tentative truce ended just as quickly as usual. I typically ignored her barbs because they were an entire language for my stepsister, but sometimes a few landed.

  “Okay…but didn’t the guy have to give it to you, and isn’t that a dead giveaway?” I tried to push forward even though I was starting to feel lightheaded with all the details around this crazy setup. How long had this been going on? Had anyone actually done this…had anyone been hurt?

  “No, silly, they make the freshmen on the team deliver the cards so no one knows who sent them, but it’s always a junior or senior who’s on the other end. They’re the only ones who play the game…it’s like a rite of passage.”

  Okay…

  I took a sip of the soup Taylor had made and made sure my face was turned away from her when I winced. How much salt had she added?

  “So…if a senior, who can get any girl he wants, gives someone a card with, let’s say, a number one on it…that means he’s willing to just make out with her?” I wiped my mouth. No way was a college-aged guy in a dark room with a willing female stopping at a base number.

  “Yes. Most of these guys have girlfriends, and the fun is in not getting caught or knowing who did it. Unless of course you hit a home run, like me. Then the entire school will know who did you.” She shimmied her shoulders with pride.

  Had she just admitted to possibly sleeping with someone’s boyfriend and being totally okay with
it? I wanted to let out a disappointed sigh, but I knew what would happen if I showed even the slightest bit of judgment of her lifestyle. She’d clam up and I wouldn’t get any more opportunities to talk to her, and this conversation clearly showed why it was so important to have someone who knew what in the heck was happening in her life.

  “Just be careful, Tay. I want you to be okay…you know that.” I sipped my soda to get out the taste of her failed attempt at potato soup. She did try, and while I knew she was going to end up calling DoorDash, I was proud that she’d attempted to make a meal.

  “I know, and I will…I’m just excited that they chose me.” She smiled brightly at me.

  I tried to push down the humiliation surfacing from the newspaper incident and the fact that there was no opening whatsoever to talk about it. That was just Taylor, though; she wouldn’t think to ask about my day. That was just who she was: a work in progress and someone I knew needed me even though she didn’t say she did. In some ways, I needed her too, even though our relationship was as lopsided as a teenager’s stuffed bra, I couldn’t give up on her. She’d had a really bad life growing up. It wasn’t until her mom married my dad that things changed for her, and because of what she’d gone through, I knew being empathetic didn’t come naturally. She’d learn, though; I knew she would. She had tried to make soup—she was on the cusp of a breakthrough. I just knew it.

  Chapter Three

  “Why didn’t you tell him to shove that article up his ass?” Hillary, one of my best friends, asked, shoving her plastic spoon in my face. I had just dropped the bomb on her that Trevor had turned down my article. So far, she’d cussed in Mandarin, and now she was pacing the floor like a panther.

  “Well, for starters, it’s my article, so I don’t want it up his ass—I want it printed in the paper.” I sat cross-legged in a pair of yoga pants and a loose shirt. I needed to try to breathe. Things were happening so fast my chest continually felt like it was bursting open, one fast thump at a time.